Alex Gray - The Riverman

Lorimer hung the cashmere coat carefully on the stand by his office door. He’d meant to bring in a coat hanger but had forgotten again in the rush to leave the house. His mouth creased in a smile as he remembered why he and Maggie had had to skip breakfast and hurry towards their cars. A sigh of contentment escaped him. God, but it was good to have her back!

His reverie was interrupted by the telephone ringing and soon the DCI was immersed in conversations that would keep him occupied for the rest of the morning.

‘That’s it! Well done, Robbie. Empathize . Like sympathize , only the poet puts himself into the place of the bird …’ A strident bell signalled the end of the period and Maggie Lorimer stood back as desks banged and feet shuffled towards the door. Robbie Ross caught her eye and grinned at her, still pleased to have cracked the idea behind Keats’ poem. Pleased, too, to have gained her enthusiastic praise.

Once the classroom was clear and the last sounds of laughter had disappeared down the corridor, Maggie tidied the papers on her desk and filed them carefully into her bulging briefcase. It had gone so well, that lesson on ‘Ode to a Nightingale’. Her sixth years were the icing on the cake in a timetable that was really pretty decent, given that she had been away in the States for half a year. Another head of English might simply have given her the dregs as a way of reminding her that others had worked hard while she’d been swanning it in Florida but Kara Steele wasn’t like that, thank God. The woman had made a real impact on the English department in the short time she had been there. And she had no problem communicating with her staff. They pulled along really well as a team and as a result their classes responded by giving of their best. It was not something that could be said of other subjects in the school and Maggie knew she had a lot to be grateful for. Kara had missed her, she’d said. Nice to have a different perspective on things while the American exchange teacher had been there, but not the same as having Maggie Lorimer around. Not too sorry her replacement had been forced by family circumstances to finish earlier than intended, either, Kara had added.

Maggie smiled as she locked her cupboard door. It had not been an easy decision to up sticks and leave Scotland for all those months but the break seemed to have done her career no harm. In fact she knew the job was more enjoyable than ever, even if she still groaned at the weight of marking that had to be done. She sat down for a moment, savouring the peace and quiet of the lunchbreak, then switched on her mobile and saw that she had three messages. Her smile at the recipient faded as she read what he had to say: Late tonight. Don’t wait dinner. Love you X

Maggie sighed, remembering the days when such messages would have built up in a mountain of discontent. Never again, she had resolved. Never again would she let her feelings spiral out of control. She had her job to do and he had his. Both mattered and both should be respected; still, there were times when her resolve might falter and Maggie knew better than to let any resentment simmer. She didn’t have such a huge marking load that a wee drive over to see Mum for an hour or two was out of the question. Anyway, there was always tomorrow morning, she told herself with a wicked grin, as her stomach rumbled reminding her of what she’d preferred to breakfast.

The glass tipped over almost with a will of its own, the red wine pooling on the white linen in a sudden stain.

‘I’ll get that,’ a voice at Shelley’s elbow told her, and before she could reply another glass of wine was in her shaking fingers and Craig’s hand was under her elbow, steering her towards a vacant chair by the hotel window.

‘Here. Drink it. You look like you need it,’ Craig’s voice was stern but his usually hard eyes contained a glimmer of sympathy for the boss’s wife. Shelley Jacobs nodded her thanks and sipped the wine. It was good stuff, not the gut rot in boxes that she’d tasted at her father’s funeral. God! That had been a trial. Joseph had insisted on footing the bill: insisted that this was a Reilly funeral.

Shelley glanced up, trying to see her brother through the crowd of people who had come back to the wake. Had he left already? Surely even Joseph would have sought her out before he’d gone home? His bitter dislike of Tony should be kept hidden today of all days. Shelley thought with a sudden sadness that the two men she’d loved best in all the world had never tried to resolve their antipathies. Now they never would.

‘Hi.’

Shelley looked up and there he was, pint in hand, his tie already loosened from its restrictive knot. Part of her wanted to rage at him for his slovenly appearance. Could you not have made an effort just this once? It’s my husband’s funeral, for God’s sake! But something in his expression stopped her.

‘I’m sorry,’ Joseph said and suddenly all her pent-up emotion gave way and Shelley found herself sobbing into her brother’s shoulder, hearing his soothing words whispering in her ear. He’d look after her. She’d be okay. He’d not let anything happen to her.

Shelley drew back, fumbling in her handbag for yet another tissue. Joseph had said sorry, that was all that mattered. The other things were platitudes, stuff she’d heard for weeks from the lawyers. But his final words didn’t make sense. Nothing was going to happen to her. Was it?

The man turned his collar against the sudden wind that knifed his face as the ferry sailed across the Clyde’s choppy waters. It was a perfect morning, the air crisp after an early frost, the sky above the Cowal Hills icy blue. He breathed in the familiar smells of diesel and sea tang, feeling the throb of the small engines under his feet. It was a short crossing over to MacInroy’s Point and he could easily have stayed in the warmth of the car but he preferred to stand outside for those few minutes, like an intermission in his day. Eddie let his mind loiter as the waves splashed against the sides of the boat, mesmerized by the curving patterns of water repeating their shapes over and over. It was with a sense of reluctance that he came to, as the voice on the tannoy requested drivers to return to their vehicles.

The ramp made a grinding sound beneath his wheels as Eddie drove off and turned left towards Gourock. It was a fine time of day for his business; the school run from Dunoon had left an hour ago and now the roads were pretty clear of commuter traffic. He switched on the radio and listened to the news as he navigated his way through the narrow curves of the town centre and headed along the coast. He’d turn off the main road at Port Glasgow, he decided, and take the back roads instead. The music from the radio began again and the man found himself humming along to it; a quick glance at the clock told him that he was in perfect time for his rendezvous. There was no hassle to these assignments: in fact, if it hadn’t been for the frisson that came with the risk of being caught, he might have stayed in that boring nine-to-five job. Glorified delivery man, Connie had called him once, but he’d soon settled her hash for her. Deliveries of the stuff he dropped off were lucrative and she’d better remember that instead of whining at him.

The first drop was in one of Eddie’s favourite places, well off the beaten track, up a narrow country lane. He’d already passed Gleddoch Country House and now he slowed down as the road darkened, flanked by trees on either side. The car splashed through surface water swilling from the edges of a rain-soaked field and Eddie changed gear again to make the sharp turn left and down into a sudden valley. Through the leafless beeches the gaunt shape of a house emerged, Gothic and sinister even on this cloudless March day. The car park was opposite the lodge house and he turned into it, immediately spotting the grey Porsche. So, the buyer was here first, was he? Eager for the stuff, Eddie laughed to himself, suffused with the sudden power that came from a control of supply and demand.